On a Slow Burn
by schizometriclanguage
Summary: A fair few miscommunications and a suffocating lack of privacy.


"Hey."

Capa turned around, his eyes taking a moment to adjust from watching the sun. Though he didn't like the ecclesiastical nature of Searle's enthusiasm of the sun's burn, he did on occasion find himself in the viewing room in spite of himself. It was an easy way to lose himself in thought, but he suspected that where Searle's experience bordered on the religious, his was more in the calculations that it would take to reignite the sun to sustain life on earth.

It was Mace and he didn't answer, instead turning back to the image of the sun, arms still crossed. They'd been doing/not doing this for months now. He heard Mace take several steps forward and pause with what the tension in the air indicated as hesitation before taking a seat on the bench instead of coming beside him. Today must be a not doing day.

It seemed like a stupid way to conduct a relationship. It 'seemed' that way because it was. But it was difficult to operate on conventions in their situations. And even if it weren't difficult, it would have been. There wasn't enough to be said between the two of them and it'd resulted only in action. Skin on skin, palpitations in normal behaviour; the two of them locked in a closet, pants shoved down, tense bodies closing in on and around one another, separate exits which ended in shared showers anyways. A complete disregard of the ramifications that could sprout from the inwards out. Bruises they hid so that they didn't need to explain them. The list went on long enough to classify as extensive and difficult to remember without having everything run into each other and ultimately become entirely overwhelming. The kinds of things that could make you wake up from sleep with wet sheets between your thighs.

Capa wondered if they were the only ones doing this. Not doing this. It didn't seem likely. Or it shouldn't have seemed likely. Was and wasn't; the facts didn't seem to matter too much, just knowing that somewhere in-between that they did exist was enough. He turned to look at Mace again, taking lowly the hair that'd long ago needed a trim, the unkempt manner of his clothing, the unreadable expression that'd raised closer to the surface each day. He was not doing well. _And how am I doing?_ Mace wasn't the man he'd thought he'd met when all of this began.

Crossing the space, he took a place beside Mace, careful to not brush against him, but also so that he wasn't on the opposite side of the bench. He did want to be close, just…not that close. Not today. Today was a _not_ day and he needed his space. Mace could live with that, or he couldn't.

* * *

Mace had always known that he liked Capa more than a colleague or a friend. Which didn't mean that they had to be friends for him to like him more than a friend, and the fact that there were on the same crew simply meant that they were involved in each others lives. As attraction is, it wasn't something he'd planned on, or anticipated and at first it'd been a feeling he tried to whittle down and cut off from himself, but over time, it seemed only to manifest and set it's roots deeper. Spending time trying not to think about it was still thinking about it; paradox. However, when they'd first met, he'd gotten the distinct impression that Capa could care less one way or the other. So he agitated. He spat angry words and challenges before he could think of their damage. He lost his temper even further when neither of those things got his attention the way he wanted it to and had to leave to cool off. And nothing seemed to change anyways. Capa was too aloof, too lost in whatever it was that he was thinking or ignoring.

He couldn't say what it was about Capa that made him want to get closer, physically, metaphysically, personally, emotionally; he'd take whatever he could get. There was this relentless desire to acquire the man's attention and the frustration of never knowing how to do it properly. He was not an affectionate man in his opinion, and he wasn't interested in talking about how he _felt_ and making redundant claims on _forever_ and _love._ Because it wasn't _really_ that.

Or maybe it was, and that was the whole problem. In the end, problem or not, what they ended up with wasn't the worst thing Mace could think of.

It'd been a few months now, between him and Capa. Time was irrelevant now, so he couldn't pin exactly how long it'd been. They slept in shifts, to maintain the bodies hardwired chemistry to Earth's sleeping schedule and so that someone was always awake in case things went wrong. Sometimes him and Capa weren't on the same shifts and wouldn't see each other for days. Mace had never felt more detached from anything in his entire life. Whenever their shifts did keep them from seeing each other for days on end, it was like whatever had happened between them before had slid off into time. A kiss, a caress, a shiver; by time they got back to it, it was only a distant memory or something that they had to catch up on. Atop it all, Capa's demeanour never changed. He was always somewhere else, leaving Mace to claw for something to grab hold of.

He always had the fight, but there were days where the best fight he could put up was the one where he did nothing, waiting for a something, anything to react to; he couldn't always instigate things. It wasn't for lack of trying.

* * *

Capa wasn't sure what it was they were doing, and he wasn't certain when it started happening. He'd never been 'interested' in anyone, really, he'd always been preoccupied with other things. Like saving the planet, or other equally mundane activities that few people understood and for those who did, they were just as equally reclusive as he was. The phrases 'sexual confusion' and 'sexual frustration' came to mind, but what it felt like here, with Mace, was more like sexual boredom. There was no passion, not that he expected there too be. He couldn't say that he'd ever felt that passion he'd heard about. There was no progression, and no promises. There was no need to fill either of those commitments. It simply happened, or it didn't.

He wasn't very proficient at displaying affection. His face was too non-responsive for things like that, and any reaction that he did offer, was something he'd observed from someone else. If he did laugh, he hoped that no one noticed that it was for too long, or not long enough or that it was too quiet or too loud. Usually it was too quiet. If he smiled he hoped that it was in the appropriate place, but if it wasn't, well that was their problem. He did have sincere feelings, he was only human, but sometimes he felt about as expressive as those women who had their faces stretched and filled and ultimately rendered beyond the regular palette of human expression. He'd never had many friends, his closest friend being his sister. And even then, she'd grown up and done all the things he had no compulsion to do. He didn't have a clock that ticked inside of him like that. Marriage, children, work, home, divorce; a bizarre circus act that failed a little here and there, but went on for better or worse anyways. She had all a vast multitude of responsibilities, and just as many problems that he couldn't relate to and always hoped that a 'Yeah, that's sounds really frustrating' and a nod or sound of agreement would be enough to fill in as empathy for.

Mace hadn't been anyone special, not really. Or he shouldn't have been. There was no reason for their mutual attraction and he could make a list of all the human instincts that could be in play to lead his mind to think that there was a benefit in having that attraction. He didn't mean to be blasé, but if they did something, why did it matter? If they made promises and acted out of passion, why did it matter? It was all effort for something the both of them had no desire to commit to. Or was it only him? He didn't think so. Mace's personality implicated that everything he did was out primal instinct when it came to people. Primal instinct counted for nothing when it came to matters of affection. Mace wanted something, and he was there to provide it. Benevolent, buddy-buddy. Whatever. It didn't feel unpleasant, he just didn't understand why it should feel at all. Capa was a scientist and he knew how the body could trick the mind. There was no reason to take it seriously. If what Mace needed was contact, he'd give it, because he wanted Mace to be healthy. That was one affection he wouldn't deny, even to himself. He cared, just not as conventionally as most people would prefer. If that meant taking his hand and instigating uncharacteristically soft groans and getting his hands and mouth dirty when the man came, so be it.

Capa wondered for a moment what'd happened to him to make him so emotionally incompetent. Most people blamed their parents, but he'd been ridiculously fortunate in whom he'd been borne from, which left him thinking that all his little perversions were created entirely by himself. That wasn't as funny as it sounded when you thought about what else could be created from the inside.

* * *

He went in for his evaluations. It seemed like something that everyone did out of boredom, rather than sincerity. It was difficult to take Searle seriously, considering that all of them lived in such limited space and saw one another every day. They were too close; how could Searle make an unbiased analysis of what they needed, when he knew what they wanted? Mace wanted to go home. He'd been in space long enough, he got it, and it held no magic for him. He missed home and it was more than a rosy coloured nostalgia. The more that he thought about it, the most nauseous it made him with want. Tricking his mind into being there created more damage than repair. So Searle recommended that he spent less time in the Earth Room. He didn't listen. If he was going to numb out either way, it might as well be in a more visually stimulating environment.

That's how this whole _thing_ started with Capa in the first place. Some snide remark about something assumed. One of those tiny infractions that quickly tore open into full-on antagonism between the two of them. But then something else cracked and he had his mouth covering Capa's, their faces colliding maybe a little too hard. It'd felt like they'd stunned one another just long enough to divert from their usual progression. And then he had his hands sliding up Capa's back, pulling off his shirt and exposing his torso. He'd kissed his skin ardently, sucked his nipples, moved on, moved down. Capa was responding, flinching at the touch on his already hard erection, his back curving forwards and a hand coming up to tangle into Mace's hair. It was slow, methodical. It didn't feel like spontaneity; Mace had felt too much like he'd done it before, which was unsettling because he hadn't. He had moments were his teeth grazed along the sensitive organ from his beginners fault, and the hand on his shoulder tightened. Otherwise Capa seemed to take it all in stride, his breathing long and even, nothing surprising him. When he came he sighed satisfactorily, long, relaxed. And maybe that's where it should have stopped and they should never have addressed the thing again.

However, Mace had no hesitation in continuing, and progressed, taking his fingers and sliding his palm behind him and slipping his fingers in. Capa'd hardly made a noise, though Mace was certain that it'd hurt. Even if Capa was familiar to the feeling, it'd probably been a while since anyone had done it to him. But again, he hardly made a noise, but Mace did see him swallow a little and his lips press thin. One finger, two, moving uncertainly, applying pressure, testing resistance. He didn't know if Capa was too tight, didn't know what would hurt him; to avoid any further fumbling on his part, he closed the deal and simply asked.

Mace was careful. With some fear he'd turned Capa so that his back was facing him. He wasn't so sure he wanted to gauge his performance by what he'd see on Capa's face. He'd paused for a moment, and ran his fingers along the little knots of Capa's curved over spine before placing his hands tentatively on his hips. It wasn't exactly rocket science what he was supposed to do, yet he hesitated. He spit into his hand, and wished that he had something better. Mace went slowly, feeling too clumsy but gained confidence as Capa didn't ask him to stop or accuse him of doing anything incorrectly. His nerves had hummed too loudly in his ears to let him even think properly, forcing him to operate entirely on instinct. The only coherent thought he remembered getting through was 'is he enjoying this?'.

For a while he wondered how big of a mistake they'd made. But their day to day interactions changed little; it was as though nothing had happened, only confusing him. What Capa wanted seemed to be simple, and it left Mace dissatisfied. Asking Capa about it was out of the question however; he didn't want to ruin anything. So he let Capa be Capa, and let himself be selfish by never questioning it.

Mace sat up from his cot, missing his bed at home for a moment and stood to stretch. As he pulled his arms over his head he contemplated going over to Capa's room, but couldn't think of what he'd do with himself once he got there. Whenever he was around him, felt as though he were hovering and unwanted, ultimately only making a pestilence of himself. If Capa was reading one of their exhausted books, his eyes would flick upwards for a moment and then continue reading. If he was watching a film that they'd seen umpteenth times already, he might wait a moment to look over by which time Mace was already coming in to join him. And then, if he was working on something, he'd finish whatever it was and then put it out of sight, as though it were some sort of secret that no one else would understand (and judging by the short glimpses Mace saw, it did happen to be things that he didn't understand but nothing Capa needed to be secretive about).

This was likely because all the conventional reasons for going to see someone never happened between them. Neither of them were much for talking, which eliminated even explaining why either would go see one another. Communication wasn't a strong point. Things felt too difficult to word correctly without setting one another off, or went without saying. Talking with the rest of crew was easier; they conversed like normal people, they made small talk and they made jokes. Capa didn't joke. He was separate from the rest of them, casting himself out. Mace sensed that it wasn't because he didn't think that he was good enough or even that he was too good, though he _did_ have a streak of arrogance that could make you want to strangle him with your bare hands. No, it was something else. He didn't fit, didn't even worry about 'fitting in' the way most people did; he'd resigned himself to solitude instead. Maybe he liked it better that way. Maybe he simply didn't know better or knew that it wasn't better. Whatever Capa's social hang-up was, Mace always decided that at the end of it, it didn't matter, and if Capa wanted him to leave, he could ask.

He'd never asked him to leave, not once. That meant something and as a result, Mace never really left.

* * *

Capa lightly fingered Mace's jaw, feeling the stubble that'd grown there through the week. It didn't grow very quickly, he noted, a fact that was small yet felt as though it were important nonetheless. He liked to gather little things he noticed about Mace. Like how he didn't eat with chop sticks when the rest of them did, or when he tapped his fingers on his side in impatience when his arms were crossed. He remembered the precise amount of days since Mace had shaved (it was eight) because it'd been the first time in weeks that he hadn't felt the rough texture of a short unkempt beard against his skin. The beard hadn't really been uncomfortable, but there was certain intimacy that the bare skin held that'd been withheld by the obscuring scuff. He could feel Mace watching him through his idle movement. _He's waiting to see if today is one of those days. Is that all what he wants today?_

Capa directed his movements more openly, curving his fingers around Mace's neck and pulling him forward with a slow sweep. The back of Mace's neck was hot underneath his own cool palm. The kiss was slow, and his hand snaked down to the man's hip. Capa flicked his tongue outwards and ran it along Mace's teeth before going deeper. It wasn't electric. Capa was certain that he'd never felt electric. Instead, it was fluid, everything converging against each other in a languid motion; like _it,_ entirely expected to be that way. It was calm, but it was never devoid of play and never without flashes of impatience from desire's underbelly. Mace wasn't a patient person, a trait that could make him stupid and insufferable without _actually_ being stupid and insufferable. It was just difficult to see eye to eye sometimes. Most of the time. But there were certain things that they agreed wholeheartedly on. Obviously. Capa felt a breath of steamed air between them as his lips departed, and it sent a curling shiver down his spine. It was one of those days.

A rough hand went up underneath Capa's shirt, a contrast to the caress up his back. Capa reached at the hem of his shirt and tugged it halfway up, Mace assisting to get it off completely. Eager hands fumbled at his belt, but he diverts them so that they'll be equally as bare and pulls of the man's shirt, a metronome, predictable, expected; relieving. Mace gets loose of his shirt and ducks down, kissing Capa's collar bone, going upwards over his neck and at the spot just beneath his jaw and his ear. He isn't careful about leaving marks. Capa doesn't care, they were easy enough to cover up and mundane to think about at a time like this anyways. He wasn't careful either, anyways.

He was being moved backwards, and he tried not to stumble, Mace stepping over his feet here and there by mistake. Couldn't be helped, it doesn't hurt anyways and even if it did, his attention was most definitely not on his feet, but rather on what Mace was doing with his hand just below his navel. Slow, gradual, entirely deliberate. Capa shut his eyes, felt his mouth slit open sounds, felt it covered by Mace's. The shiver convulsed forcefully forwards.

"These cots are too damn small," Mace muttered, glancing at Capa's mussed pile of blankets. Capa made a sound, but it was difficult to discern as agreement or not. He didn't stop Mace from sitting him down there though, so it seemed to be an inconsequential matter. Instead, Capa was getting Mace's belt undone, hands pulling downwards. The multitasking was an annoyance, Mace found. Not that he wanted it to just _happen,_ it was much better to draw it out, but he didn't need his clothes to do that.

He watched as Capa closed his eyes, listened to the smallest of sounds seep past his lips. Mace had always found Capa's lips to the be the central focus of the man's face with their prominent shape, curves that met at sharp points. And then from there, there was the light dusting of freckles underneath eyes that always looked tempted to engage their full interest but never did. There was that _thing_ about his jaw line, it's soft curves that while enhancing a beauty, never surrendered the suggestion of his stubborn arrogance. There were a million portraits his mind had taken of Capa that he never remembered until he had him alone, like this. And then it was overwhelming, as though his mind were being forced to flip through a thousand photo album pages from several sources all at once.

They'd discarded the remaining clothing and Mace pressed Capa back, negotiating the small space between them. It was claustrophobic, and he could see Capa's mouth turn downwards and open his eyes, looking for a way out of the discomfort. He'd have said sorry if it'd made any difference. Capa eyes flicked shut however as he bucked forwards, a small 'ah' coming out as he forgot about the small confines; there was a spot just on the inside of his thigh that always surprised him. Mace grinned and probed around again with a hand, but couldn't seem to find it again.

"Stop fucking around," Capa ordered, locking his eyes with Mace's as they opened again. Mace stopped for a moment, paralyzed by the predatory glean over Capa's sharp blue irises. It was one of the rare moments where Capa seemed to express a immediate interest in what was happening. Mace didn't delay for long however, wisely resuming and complying with the demand. His grin had faded, instead replaced with a frown of concentration. He rested a hand over the bed, balancing himself, fingers stubbing against the wall reminding him all the more of his environment. It'd be embarrassing to send them both tumbling off the damn thing. Once he was certain that no such thing would happen, he fulfilled his order in full.

Capa hissed inwards sharply, clenching his teeth; maybe he regretted his impatience. But he didn't protest and ask Mace to stop. The motion quickly becomes synchronized; Capa doesn't open his eyes at all. That wasn't important, Mace had already gotten the look he'd been waiting for. He won't beg, or ask Capa for anything he didn't care to give. He found more pleasure in watching Capa's reactions without the distraction of the concise clarity of the man's eyes anyways, finding what was good and what wasn't through the murky expressions of pleasure. From the bottom of his stomach he could feel his own anticipation blooming, unfurling outwards, tempting to break rather than continue the gradual momentum. Finally, he shut his own eyes, making sure that eagerness unfolded carefully, prolonging it for as long as possible. He tries to imagine it going on forever, but he can't, and then, it's over. It feels cut short. Capa opens his eyes and looks away. It's a forlorn look, and Mace is left, as he often was, with the wondering if what they were doing amounted to anything either of them could take. He wanted to lay beside Capa, but was forced to amble off of him and find space even just to sit. There's no space for anything that felt like _more_ between them.

The result? An insatiable desire to chase down what was there.

* * *

Mace had looked at him with _that_ look again. The one that said he was frustrated. The one that said he was too proud to ask, the one that said he was waiting for _him,_ Capa, to address it so that he could respond. What the hell was he supposed to say? That was good? Let's do that again? Was he supposed to make jokes, play coy, pleasure him so that they could just go on for hours at a time? He didn't know what the standard was. All he wanted, was for them to be in the same space and not have to say anything at all, and be satisfied with that. Anything he said only felt as though it'd belittle the whole whatever-it-was-they-were-to-each-other. Lovers? That always sounded so banal to the ear. About as common as 'boyfriend', 'husband', 'partner'. They were labels that were supposed to make things convenient, but they all sounded like misnomers.

Mace was right, the place was too damn small. Nearly a year on the _Icarus II_ had made everything feel terribly claustrophobic. While the ship was technically very large, it seemed to shrivel up smaller the longer that they were out in space. It made it difficult to not think that everything said and experienced would simply be absorbed in their little ship and clog the air. It was better not to talk, to discuss. It ensured that there was still space to breathe and think. Even thoughts got stuck in the walls though, incapable of going beyond and filter out into the space that seemed to smother them with it's black canvas. Maybe when they got home (if they got home, Capa couldn't help but think) things would be more to conventional tastes. Maybe then they could feel like what they did was consequential between them. But right now, all Capa could feel was numbness. Even the idea of launching _Payload_ was abstract and without life; and that was one of the reasons in life he was certain about. He'd never have imagined that it'd be difficult to connect to things that were arguably the most stimulating acts the body could offer. But everything about being aboard the _Icarus II_ seemed to sap him of all the emotional facilities he'd barely been endowed with from the beginning.

He picked himself up off the bed, and covered himself up enough to go over to the showers. In the mirror he briefly inspected himself, finding dull looking bruises on his neck, a few marks of teeth over his front. He'd wear his zip up. Solved; easy. He pressed his fingers lightly against the injured skin, evoking a dull ache, momentarily distracting all his attention to himself. He'd told Mace to stop messing around, an attempt to knock him out of the sultry coma. And it had, though only for a moment.

The warm water washing over him dulled down everything over his body, tapering off the last of all the little sensations. With all the angry words they'd exchanged over the past few years, the minor scuffles, and venomous glares, he'd have thought that the man would have been less…gentle. It wasn't as though he were afraid of 'breaking' Capa and it wasn't a deficiency of any sort, but he was holding back it seemed. Mace never felt guilty about what they'd done either; it was the opposite. He always wanted to do more. Capa wondered why Mace was under the impression that he wouldn't allow it. Maybe if he did whatever it was, he could feel that _electric_ feeling he'd heard so much about.

He recalled his sister's description of a particularly spectacular orgasm she'd had around the time she'd gone into college. Considering it's his sister, he had to take a moment to control his gag reflex, but quickly remembers the curiosity he'd had at the time. Of course he'd had orgasms, but _the way she had described it._ Something like an explosion, but not burning, but everything is, or maybe like something drawing inwards all into one space and it's enough to make it impossible to think…she hadn't really known how to put it at all. For himself however, for some reason, he'd always been able to reduce it to a science, rather than a pleasure. Knowing too much about body function and it's primal origins seemed to have somehow killed off his sex drive. _This_ did that, which resulted in _this_, which causes the brain to react like _this,_ and the stimulus like _that._ He could count out the steps of the process as they happened, and give a short description that sounded like it was out of an encyclopaedia or a program from a documentary from the television. Maybe it even was something that he'd heard from the television, or read in a book. Where ever it might have come from, it certainly had a way of dampening any feelings like lust, desire, or passion. If it weren't for some non-descript commonalities that filtered between the two of them, Capa would venture to say that Mace was only doing it out boredom. Fuck-buddies. Whatever. The mind didn't need the emotional spectrum to fuck, and Capa could attest to that through experience.

He finished his shower, and stepped into his room. The lack of smell on his own body caused the room scream in the apparent obviousness what'd just happened there not half an hour before. He gathered up his bedding for cleaning.

* * *

"Want to play chess?"

Mace looked up from his book, surprised that he hadn't seen Capa come in the room. He'd was halfway through a double shift he'd taken so that Cassie could get some rest. She'd been missing home more than usual lately, sleeping poorly, like him; he took pity. Passing a hand over his face, he nodded, but was saying "checkers" instead. Capa's mouth flicked into a brief smile as he set down the board. He'd only brought the checker pieces.

"What are you doing up?" Mace asked.

"It's my shift in the kitchen today. It's six-thirty in the morning, Mace."

So he was on the last leg of the shift, more than half-way through; he'd lost track of time. Harvey was listening to his space music over at his comm. centre. On the screen, he saw Corazon in the Oxygen Room, tending to the vegetables and plants. Now and then he'd catch a glimpse of her face; extreme serenity. He was envious. Capa's shouldered him gently as he grabbed a stool to put the board on.

Mace helped Capa set the pieces, eyes flicking between what he was doing and Capa's face, fingers. His eyes lingered over his lips for a moment, and he felt his body bend forwards but stop before he got close enough for Capa to notice. It wasn't the time or place. His foot bumped against Capa's underneath the table and he knotted inside at the frustration of being incapable of acting freely. Without a word, they begin the game. Capa would have half an hour before he started breakfast; the game was a welcome distraction from Mace's exhaustion. Considering that the ship ran itself for the most part, these shifts were largely there for the 'what if?' factor, making it excruciatingly time-consuming in the dullest fashion imaginable. With the only visuals being their fellow crew members moving around _Icarus,_ the stimulus to remain conscious was lacking.

Looking at Capa, Mace was reminded that _too much_ stimulus could be just as damaging. That and doing anything in the control room was entirely out of the question. He could imagine what Harvey would say, with a look of either shock, horror, disgust, indignation or all of the above at the sight of him ramming Capa up against a control board, Capa making those small groans and the sounds of surprise whenever Mace managed to find the right spot. And then there would be the demands that Capa would make, maybe more outrageous than usual because of knowledge of having an audience. And, of course, he'd be more than willing to comply, though perhaps with enough defiance just to make it interesting. Maybe he'd grab a handful of Capa's hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck like a predator making to tear into it's prey. Maybe he'd get something more than the little sounds, something louder, something that'd fill him inside too. Mace looked over the board in front of him.

No, a checkers game would be all for now. Ultimately, it was three checkers games that Mace lost horribly, too tired to put in any real effort. Not that either of them had been competing, the only sign of Capa's victory being the slightest of smiles that ducked out of view before Mace could be sure that he'd seen it at all. Mace had never seen a full-on smile from Capa. His movements were efficient, as opposed to involved. What expressions that did manage to come through were nearly undetectable and always brief.

Strange that their fluid, slow-sensual exaggerations in their cramped sleeping quarters weren't the same.

* * *

"Capa, it's Mace," Icarus patched Mace's voice through. Capa tapped the screen, unlocking the door for Mace to come in. Capa watched through the half a minute of delay as he heard the door unlock, and Mace's step start working their way up the stairs onto _Payload's_ operating platform.

Mace paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, looking out across to Capa. Capa suddenly felt bare, realizing that he wasn't holding anything to make him feel less bare. He was imagining _Payload's_ ultimate detonation and begging for it to work, which was occupation enough on your own, but when someone else entered the room, it immediately felt foolish. His arms dangled at his side, feeling limp and grotesque. What was Mace doing, staring like that? Capa crossed his arms over chest, trying to restore the air of serenity he'd just taken the last hour or so to build. It worked enough so that he could look away, casting a gaze up above him at the network of circles and square in their dark metal colours. He heard Mace walk towards him finally.

It happened more quickly than Capa had time to register, a hand ghosting across his back and then untangling his arms from their knot overtop him.

"What are you doing?" Capa asked, eyes flicking towards one of /_Icarus's_/ many eye sockets reflecting from above them. He thrust his arms out of Mace's grip. He didn't really have an interest in being caught on the ship's activity log with Mace doing what…he highly suspected Mace of wanting to do. Mace turned to look up at the camera lens for himself.

"I wouldn't worry about that," he said calmly. "I was on shift last night and Trey fell asleep so I had the video archives all to myself."

Capa's eyes had narrowed at Mace, but lessened in their intensity as realization dawned on him. Mace grinned; the first time in a while.

"So I'm doing what right now?"

"You're still here. You do know how much time you spend in here?"

"And what are you doing?"

Mace's grin faded, and held himself still, the grin snapping off like ice in brittle cold. Capa remembered branding him as unresponsive and emotionally detached when they'd first met. But that'd been when the Centre had been trying to build bonds between them to try and equip them with the social structure to last several years in space travel, so naturally they'd both been resistant to such optimism. Capa'd found it invasive and rejected their attempts to build his life for him, especially when it meant they wanted him to bond with someone like who he'd thought Mace was; an unsophisticated, viciously pragmatic, unimaginative idiot without an ounce of his own free thought spawned from a long-running military service. Someone who could take orders, but couldn't innovate for himself. It'd become apparent however, how incorrect his assessment had been. Or become. Mace was something else, it'd become apparent, but what, he couldn't put his finger on now. It was easy to see that they'd all internalized things unto themselves and as a result, no one was seeing how far their fellows were falling and if they were going too far and Mace was no different. Capa saw Mace retreating, his sharp decisive reasoning's that Capa had come to appreciate diminishing as little conflict arose to keep it sharp. Mace had truly become unresponsive and emotionally detached, as though Capa's first assessment had become a cruel prophecy fulfilled.

"Earth Room," Mace finally muttered. Defeat settled resolutely over his shoulders.

Capa knew that this was the point where any regular person would have offered something insightful and condoling to say, but he felt his face remain impassive. His mind strained to find a appropriate course of action and came up with nothing, not even anything to pretend. Without noticing, he'd crossed his arms over his chest again as though he were closing Mace off; he didn't mean to. His feet shifted, a quiet scuff on the floor. It wasn't his place to say that Mace should stop torturing himself in there, going over the archives of stock footage of Earth again and again. Capa hadn't told Searle about Mace, though it wasn't the biggest secret. He just knew a further into it's extent. They could put a lock on the files, but everyone on the ship had their vice, and depriving one while turning a blind eye to the others would be unfair.

The ship was wrought with malaise, and he didn't want to draw attention to his own.

* * *

Mace swallowed his anger at Capa's insinuating silence which was all the more infuriating because he didn't mean it. Capa didn't know what to say, and he was disoriented by it. But the contempt still tore raw Mace's throat. He suddenly regretted coming up here into Capa's space (and it was undoubtedly his) with the news of his sabotage. He shouldn't have had hopes or expectations for anything. He hadn't really come with a plan, but the idea of opportunity had built a anticipation that'd failed to live up to it's promise. Capa hadn't failed to live up to himself, that was one thing Mace bitterly noted that he could count on.

"I'm going," Mace informed, defeating himself, lying, making an excuse to leave. He watched Capa's face contort in anger of his own, catching him off guard. Perhaps he'd been wrong about his assumptions on Capa as well and had spoken too soon. He felt an ebbing at his temples as a headache considered to begin its manifestation.

"What, you're angry at _me?"_ Capa acrimoniously demanded. "I think I should point out here that I didn't actually _say_ anything."

Mace tensed his body, willing it not to move so that he didn't reveal anything. _This is how quickly things disintegrate,_ he thought bitterly. He thought maybe that they'd have fun, be spontaneous. That's what the expectation had been. It was hard to have 'fun' on the ship. It was like that'd been left behind too, on Earth, where they could go somewhere, make plans, do things, interact with people or find privacy; freedom. No one had anticipated just how little there was to do in space, and how invasive everything about it could become. But the purpose wasn't to be comfortable. It was about saving their planet. That was difficult to relate to and put into perspective when you hadn't seen mankind beyond the small sampling of their crew. Eight people mankind did not make, and it was difficult to imagine the world on a greater scale. Even a world that depended on the success of their mission.

The world seemed less and less of a concept the longer that they were away from it. Video messages simply didn't cut it. There was nothing for him to say to them, and nothing they could say to him that wouldn't keep him awake when he should be sleeping.

Capa was boring holes into him with a familiar glare. It should have made him wither, because despite it's pronounced frequency, Mace hadn't ever actually gotten used to it. But if one look was going to tear him down, he had no business being near Capa at all; and that wasn't an option. So he met it, full-on, as he always did, electrical surges pulsating the air and the claustrophobia of knowing you were important enough to have that attention.

"Do you want me to stay?" Mace asked, though it sounded more akin to a challenge. Capa didn't answer; which wasn't a 'no' as much as it wasn't a 'yes'. He was going to let Mace decide and he wouldn't dignify the question until Mace made the decision. This was nothing unusual. It was the trick they used to keep from talking, because talking meant quickly descending into shouting which was something they were never _actually_ in the mood for. It was just something that happened. Mace sighed exhaustively and went to Capa's side, slipping an arm around the man's slim waist. For a moment, Capa tensed at the touch, unused to the small intimacy. But, he relaxed into the uncommon gesture, melding against Mace lightly, and letting the man's hands clasp together and bind him in a circle.

"Do whatever you want."

* * *

Mace had set the cameras back to their proper function again and the little gestures they'd shared once again became hidden behind their doors and caught only in brief exchanges of eye contact that the crew took for animosity rather than hints to something past or before hatred. Capa remembered his sister favouring the weary platitude of 'a fine line between love and hate'. His sister seemed very far away now in his mind, and it was becoming alarming to remember her at all sometimes; she felt like a false memory. Someone he made up, like an imaginary friend or a cricket conscious that offered all the anecdotes and proverbs when they'd be most banal or poignant. He wanted to hug her, kiss her on the cheeks, make sure that she was real. He wanted to see his nephew and his niece; would they be afraid of him if he ever saw him again? They were so young, but kids grow quickly…that's what his parents used to say about him. Further prosaic truisms. He was surprised that he missed hearing them after all the time he'd spent balking at them in the past.

His family had become ghosts, shadowy. He hadn't brought any photographs. It didn't seem like a good idea; he was right, too. Mace had brought photographs and it'd done him no good.

Mace was deteriorating. He was losing track of time, where he used to be militarily punctual. Someone would have to wake him up for his shift, or go to the Earth Room. He'd been warned about his time spent in the Earth Room by Kaneda. He was recommended to talk to Searle, but refused. No one blamed him. Other than for their monthly check-ups, there was no way to force him to seek counsel against his will unless he was a risk to himself or others. And besides, it'd be difficult feeling justified prosecuting him for something that was technically as harmless as losing track of time. They all did it. There was no time where they were. It got lost in routine, making it last longer or seem like they hadn't had /_time_/ to take it in at all. Sometimes it seemed as though they'd only just left; other times it was as though it was the only thing they'd ever done, forever being propelled towards the sun to save something they'd never experienced.

Capa hated the melodrama of it. It moved at a sluggish crawl, like a cancer, slowly taking hold and becoming increasingly malignant. There should be no drama. It should be simply what it was; a mission. They shouldn't be thinking about the things they missed, or the things they wanted to do. It was only a job. They were the ones qualified, and that should have been enough to carry them through. Boredom bred the internal psychodrama, and as long as no one went off the deep end like in that ancient horror movie _'The Shining'_, no one cared. No one back on earth anyways. It was their necks on the line, but it was the minor concern as humanity as they knew it that was the real issue. A few severed heads in the face of an entire populace was nothing.

His feet had been carrying him towards Mace's room on their own comfortable vacancy of direction.

He wasn't trying to be sympathetic towards Mace, Capa assured himself. That's not why he was going to Mace's room. He was going for himself. He wanted something too. It was _one of those days_ where Capa couldn't stand being alone. Numbers and calculations of an unpredictable bomb didn't help. Fantasies of their goal achieved and heading home didn't help. It had to be _someone_. It had to be Mace, but not because of some deep-rooted attraction, and it definitely wasn't because he was 'the one'. Capa had concluded longer ago than he could care to remember that 'the one' was a load of bullshit. He'd been drawn to too many people at once to believe in that sort of thing. But right now, it was only Mace, and the feeling was mutual. It was justified.

Capa knocked on the glass, normally only frosted over enough to obscure the features of the person inside, but now set at an opaque white. It was a clear indication that Mace was there, and surely enough, after a moments delay the door came open and Capa was wordlessly permitted to enter. It was a cave inside.

"Were you sleeping?" Capa asked, feeling as though he were only asking the walls. He couldn't see Mace as the door automatically shut behind his back.

"No."

Capa felt around for the surface of the bed. As he sat down, his head hit the shelf overhead and he made a small sound of pain before he slumped low enough to fit underneath. Mace followed, but managed to miss the shelf. He didn't ask why Mace was sitting in the dark. Why shouldn't he be sitting in the dark?

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

Capa wished that he could take back the question and choke on the words. All he was doing was trying to fill up the air with something when he didn't need to say anything at all. The cell-like room seemed enormous in the dark. 'Why are you sitting in the dark?' was a euphemism for 'Are you okay?', which was a vapid question, and one that he didn't mean to ask for exactly that reason. Small talk stinks. That was a song his grandfather used to listen to and a phrase that always rang through his mind in missing conversations like these. He looked in vain to try and see Mace's expression. He didn't see him through the thick black but felt and heard him sigh against him. It seemed appropriate to do _something,_ but he felt incapable of moving and remained still, his shoulder pressing up against Mace's lightly.

"Are you bored?"

* * *

"Am I bored?" Capa replied back airily. Mace raised his hands up to his face and ran his palms against his forehead and into his hair.

"Why are you here, Capa?"

He could imagine the expression on Capa's face; confusion that quickly slipped into offence and anger. Surely enough, he could feel Capa lifting himself off the bed to leave. Mace seized at the darkness and found his arm, trailing behind and yanked him back. Capa landed heavily and the base of his back hit Mace's knee.

"For fuck's sake, what the hell are you doing!" Capa hissed. He'd be biting his lip now, which he did sometimes. It inflamed the vessels, giving them a red tinge. His blue eyes would flash with a concise anger. As he imagined this, Mace muttered an apology and Capa rearranged himself so that he was beside Mace again, though this time he was pressed up against him much more closely and felt his warmth all along one side of him.

Neither of them moved. Mace fingered at the fabric of his loose shorts. He used to only use them for sleeping, but as modesty faded amongst the crew, they slummed around in their sleepwear like collage students until at least halfway through their day cycle. Vanity, while always an issue, had very low standards aboard _Icarus II._ Kaneda was the only one impervious to it. Where Searle watched the sun, or Capa brooded over _Payload_, Kaneda followed a strict regime of schedule to keep himself in order.

They sat in silence, listening to one another's breathe. Are you bored? Mace wondered what sort of answer he was expecting. It was clear that for Capa, whatever-you-wanted-to-call-the-thing-not-thing between them was not something that really meant anything. He could go with or without it. Mace thought maybe he'd felt that way too, but when he'd cut the cameras, it occurred to him that being that close to someone felt so much more _natural_ than anything he'd felt in a long time. It wasn't some strangled memory or a suspended illusion in the Earth Room. It was Capa. As natural as the whole thing had felt, Mace was dubious as too any reciprocation on the count. They didn't talk and they didn't want to. That was their problem. They weren't hiding anything (what was there really to hide on a voyage like this?) but they weren't communicating with normal messages. It wasn't a _normal_ situation. _Fuck._ He wouldn't even had known what to do in a 'normal' situation, Mace realized.

Mace moved, restlessness compelling him. He turned his body so that he was leaning against the adjacent wall, feet brushing against Capa's thigh which moved back at the touch.

"What're you doing?" Capa asked, irritation lacing his voice. This hadn't gone a way he liked, Mace realized. Lurching forwards, Mace grasped the mans shoulder and pulled him back, cradling him between his legs and closing his arms around his waist. Capa didn't relax, uncertain of what to make of the position. Mace waited. He wanted to feel the muscles relax and melt against him. He didn't want anything desperate.

When Capa didn't concede, he gave up. Gave in. He wasn't sure which.

* * *

The ship ate sound; he knew that. It ate sound and it had no place to go. Capa tried not to shout out, for fear of being heard; of hearing himself. Of having the walls take that sound and regurgitate it to him at all the inconvenient times. To fill his room with them, to trap him in. This was the thing everyone seemed to worry about, without knowing that they worried at all. The only reason that his fingernails weren't cutting his palms was the layer of bed sheets between the skin.

He knew that he'd mishandled himself when he was around Mace. It was glaringly obvious given the position he was in now; position being underneath and subservient, position being pain, position being more aggressive than necessary. Position being biting his lip hard enough that he was sure his teeth threatened to break skin if they hadn't already. He was trying not to cry out and trying not to give in. Admitting how badly it hurt meant admitting weakness and as far as male hormones went, that wasn't admissible. But _hell,_ it was like the man was trying to get back at him for something beyond just his usual lack of social skills. And maybe he thought that he was. Taking a non-response as a cold shoulder. It wasn't _that._

Mace's hands felt rough on his hips. Callous. They weren't warm, or cold. Capa felt as though his whole body was gradually crumbling inwards. Every now and then Mace would grunt; animal sounds. Nothing like the soft moans and hums like he was used to from their more rhythmic practices. Capa growled into the mattress. He opened his eyes for a moment, but it made no difference in the dark. It hid their faces and prevented a cease fire.

But it made no difference to sound and finally, a strangled cry forced it's way past his lips. Mace had grabbed a muss full of his hair, and his hand had pressed the side of his face hard enough into the fabric to cause a scraping burn. The mans large hand covered his ear with a palm, muffling the sound to himself, but he still heard it. That _noise._ The ones that'd be taken by the ship and filter back to him when he didn't want to hear it. Maybe when he was sleeping. Maybe when he was awake. It didn't matter when.

"You're hurting me," he finally conceded through gritted teeth. There was nothing in what was happening. He felt Mace stop, leaning overtop him. Ragged breathe masked anything he might have been trying to say. He stayed like that for a moment, but the proceeded to delicately separate himself. It didn't help; Capa hissed and the moment he felt able to, he raised a hand to wipe away the tears. Tears from pain. Nothing else. He didn't _cry_ over things. It was an unattractive quality on both genders.

Not to say that he was unfeeling; before he realized what he was doing, he'd balled his hand into a fist and punched into the blindly dark and connected with something that felt like the bottom of Mace's jaw. _Jackpot.

* * *

  
_

_"Fuck, this is stupid!"_ Mace half-shouted. He said the 'fuck' bit rather loudly, but then remembered that while people on the outside couldn't _see_ him, they would _hear_ them if they were loud enough and brought the volume down to something only slightly above his normal speaking levels. He crashed upwards, one hand on the abrupt pain that'd hit him along his jaw and another fumbling for the light switch. As he turned it on, he saw Capa laying on his back, and his hands brought together of the bottom part of his face, as though trying to stop any words from spilling out by prayer. But it was only exhaustion of what they were doing. Mace wished that he wouldn't do that and maybe something like "I'm sorry" would tumble out so that he could say the same. But he wasn't sorry enough to say it first.

But Capa was the only one deserving an apology right now, he silently amended. Mace sunk down, head in hands as he sat on the edge of the bed. In his peripherals, he saw Capa's body gleaned with sweat. Mace watched his hands move slowly from his face as he propped himself up on his elbows gingerly, his mouth set rigidly as he denied pain any further acknowledgement. His eyes were rimmed with red from quickly drying tears, but they lacked none of their contempt. Mace lowered his own hands and couldn't look away, withering inside and feeling entirely deserving of it. The feeling was a relatively simple cocktail; shame was there as well as resignation. Disappointment? Not quite. Or not with Capa. Whatever the mixture, it poisoned from the inside and the worst part was that he'd downed it whole by his own will.

Capa was the one who broke the stalemate between their eyes, casting off the look to nothing, staring at the wall. Mace waited for him to say something. Anything. He said nothing.

"I shouldn't have…" Mace's words trailed off as he realized that they would make no difference. Capa drew his gaze back to Mace blankly. It rendered him silent.

* * *

He dreamt of the sun, of falling into it, of being consumed, incinerated; becoming a part of the star, burning for a fraction of a second, creating the smallest bit of energy, of travelling through space in a beam of light that'd eventually hit something and die all over again, but this time, with no promise of a rebirth and nothing beautifully poetic about it. He'd wake up, sheets soaked in sweet, subsequently making his body ravenous for air and water. It'd been over a year now. The same dreams, the same obsessions. Without Mace, all he had left was the surface of the sun. _Payload._ The mission. Cold replacements.

Mace retreated. He hardly spoke with anyone unless it was relevant to the maintenance of the ship. He read and re-read books, and Capa suspected that he didn't take in any of the words no matter how long he stared at the page. His mind was elsewhere, somewhere that Capa wasn't welcome anymore. It was things that Mace had guarded all along, but Capa hadn't realized until the fortress had replaced the fence. But he didn't relentlessly knock against the gates either, so maybe it was just that a door had been slammed shut in his face.

Whenever they ended up in the same rooms together, he never made an excuse to leave, but he never greeted Mace either. The ship became even smaller as it seemed that they crossed each other's paths more often than they had before. That wasn't true of course, but it took a lot of energy to pretend that someone didn't exist. The rest of the crew took it as nothing new. Maybe a slight exacerbation of what'd already looked like a severe case of bad blood.

It always astounded Capa at how their outward relationship had always been a perfect cover for privacy. No one had ever asked anything. They took it as they saw it; that they simply couldn't stand to be in one another's presence. That it repulsed them both. The fine line between love and hate, was something people noticed. What was it called when there was no mistaking what it appeared as? A virtuoso visage or a way to circumvent suspicion in a way Capa could recall no other in doing so well. It didn't feel like an achievement, however grand it really was when put into perspective. It felt like no-man's land. The lines weren't there; meaning that there were no confines and no measures. Everything and nothing.

Mace's hair had become unruly; his whole appearance unkempt and shaggy. It didn't look as though he'd 'given up', however, which gave no one a solid reason to intercede. Mace latched onto the mission and preoccupations of returning home. The closer they got to the delivery point, the more Capa was certain that they would never get home. It was only a hunch, but when he caught sight of Mace, he felt an obligation to tell him that they weren't going home. But he never did however, knowing that it'd end only worse. There was nothing that'd come of it. Besides, what did he know? He was just the physicist there to detonate a bomb no one else understood. He didn't care if he went down with his creation, but he didn't expect the same from anyone else. Least of all Mace. With so much antagonism between them even before they'd detached from one another's lives, it was a subject with too much distance even if they were 'getting along'. It was personal.

He still had _those days,_ but they were only followed by fevered nights he spent falling into the sun.

* * *

The freckles on Capa's face and arms had darkened. Prolonged ultraviolet exposure. His usually pale skin was tinged red; sun burns. He bit his lip when he had to raise his arms. He never looked at Mace. No lingering glances here, Capa was an expert at the cold shoulder. Two could play that game, but Mace found that he lost more than Capa. He lost because of the incredulity of just how good Capa was at the damn game. He could behave as though Mace weren't in the room at all. The scuffle after the incident about their last messages home was the first time Capa had even really _looked_ at him in ages. And then, it was that look of contempt; a lunge; a brawl. There wasn't anything that he could do with that. Just an apology that was difficult to feel.

He realized that he shouldn't attach so much hope to something as feeble as the hope of returning home. Suspicion lurked underneath every thought he had towards that hope. It'd be safer to hope for nothing. However, if he hoped for nothing, he'd be useless. He'd prove that he hadn't been worth taking on the mission. No matter how defeated he felt, Mace wasn't one to concede to actually defeat when it mattered. Failure meant the entire human race. It put his own misery into context enough to perform his job. He could ignore Capa if it wasn't about him. So he made it about the mission. About a whole populace of people he'd never met, and who the majority of likely didn't even know his name, despite the extensive media coverage on the mission that'd existed from day one. He hadn't ever interacted much with them, denying interviews, or giving short, concise answers. Reports rather than introspections. The only person frostier than himself had been Capa. Having that intentional ignorance of _one another_ was something he definitely felt however. Even now. Even as Capa had taken his chance to send one last message home. The only people he cared about remembering him, his love and his name on earth was his family.

But the worst of it? He wasn't actually _that_ angry. It'd been an excuse to get Capa to _look at him._ It was because it _was_ Capa that he got so angry, and that was all. He could live with not sending his message home. It'd been 'pent-up' rage that even Searle hadn't found the real source of. But then, Mace suspected that the doctor had lost his grip just as much as the rest of them, so it was nothing that surprised him. It definitely made lying easier, especially when he threw in the truth of losing track of _time_.

Realizing just how much time he'd ignored, made him realize just how much he'd lost. They were close. They'd launch the bomb, it'd work, or it wouldn't. They'd go home. Maybe then he'd be able to repair the _thing_ between them. He intended to, eventually.

His tongue swelled as he tried to apologize, fell over words he didn't rehearse and as a result, never escaped and reached the hearing of the one he wanted to hear it the most.

Hell, he couldn't even look at the man.

"So was that the apology?" Capa asked aggressively. Mace cast a glance over to Capa, hoping to find an opening to repair things. There was nothing.

"…Yeah, that was it."

It was something they both regretted more than they would to admit.


End file.
